


Maps

by moon_opals



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluff and Humor, Freeform, Gen, Parent-Child Relationship, parent trap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-06 19:43:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19069399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_opals/pseuds/moon_opals
Summary: “I can DM her and ask if she wants to see you."“DM?”“Direct Message,” Louie explained.“Oh,” Della nodded. “You don’t have to do that.”“Already sent.”“Wait, what,” she quacked. “I said don’t!”“It’s too late,” they replied, not at all apologetic. “It sent.”--Della learns about social media and reconnects with an old friend.Her kids hear wedding bells.





	Maps

**Author's Note:**

> I regret nothing.

As simple as it was and as easy as it was, Della knew she wouldn’t do it. Her cowardice infuriated her, but nothing could be done about it. She returned ten years too late, and this afforded humanity an ample opportunity to change. Technology improved. People grew and moved on with their lives. Della Duck was a long forgotten newspaper clipping buried in distant memory. It wasn't her place, she realized, to disrupt their normal. 

It was hunger. She knew that much, and like most hungers, she predicted it’d recede in the passing weeks as she adjusted to her new normal. It was only a matter of time before the new shiny gleam started to fade. Adventure filled days were coated in bonding and trials, far more than she anticipated, but days quickly weaned into weeks, leaving her famished. 

The answer was blatant. What fed this hunger was her ignorance. The not knowing. Della was a lot of things. A pilot, an adventurer, a mother in training, MIT as she claimed, and in Donald’s colorful vocabulary, a dumbass. Ignorant was new. ignorant wasn’t one she’d apply to herself. _I’m Della Duck_ , she grumbled in bed, unable to drift into comfortable slumber, _Nothing can stop Della Duck_. Except this. For some reason, this was putting her on hold, and Della didn’t like what it meant.

Fear. She was afraid, and this fear was unlike what she felt when she first returned. Hesitant. Concerned. Nervous. This wasn’t a scenario of her not knocking on the door. It wasn’t an option. She had to do it for herself and most importantly, her family. Her presumed death was a ghost she was ready to exorcise from their hearts. But this? She abandoned her bed and nestled on the windowsill, gazing out the open window.

Once upon a dream, the moon had been heaven, and then it became real. Which was worse. Her plagues were memories flashing across her dreamscape. Nightmares were child's play at this point. Her night time horrors were colored stone grey white. Though dreams brought no comfort, hunger remained above her stomach, somewhere between her lungs, and she, the invincible Della Duck, didn’t want to investigate.

* * *

It always came back to her kids. They returned an hour early. Arctic frost created a thin sheet of ice over their feathers, a minor consequence when all things were considered. The Doomsday Vault was secure, and the mythic Money Tree seeds were protected. All was well. Della and Dewey walked side by side the mansion as Scrooge walked ahead, distracted on the phone with his latest business investment.

“I can’t wait to show the guys everything,” Dewey said, breathless still. “They're going to be so jealous. Especially Louie,” he winked.

Della closed the door and turned, confusion written on her face. “How are going to do that, honey,” she asked, “they weren’t there with us? Unless you had a miniature camera implanted in your brain that enhances your photographic memory and allows you to display said imagines through your pupil?”

Dewey stopped, staring at her. “No,” he pondered for several moments, “can that be done? Is that a thing that can be done?”

“I’m not positive. I’ve asked Gyro for years, and every time he’s used some trap door to kick me out the lab.” She shrugged with a grin, “But I haven’t given up yet!”

His eyes shined brightly, and he was about to cheer her on, voicing his cooperation when a soft jingle was heard in his left jacket pocket. His attention scurried to his phone, and he pressed the home button, smile broadening with what Della identifies as childish glee.

“I got a new follower!” He jumped, “A total of 15! You are dewing, Dewey!”

“Follower?” Della frowned, “What is this? A cult? Dewey, are you in a cult?” She lowered to eye level, gripping his wrist tightly, “Baby, are you a cult leader?”

“Wait, what?”

“Don’t worry, honey, Momma’s gonna fix this,” a dark glare overwhelmed her usually benign features. "No son of mine is going to get wrapped in a brainwashing cult!"

“Mom, it’s just Waddle.”

She returned to him, “What?”

“Waddle,” he raised his phone. “It’s a social media app where I post pictures and quotes from the Dew-life, and one more person is following the great saga that is Dewey!”

He spoke quickly and with more excitement than he had for the Money Tree. Della stared at the screen and read the tiny print. Photos of their adventures were pasted on screen with brief captions and number signs attached.

“Social media app,” she mumbled, then shook her head. “Of course! Social media app, Waddle!” She stood quickly, pretending the blush on her cheeks was from the heat, “Definitely not a cult. As long as you’re safe.”

“Thanks, Mom.” His eyes widened, “I need to show Webby! She’s going to love this!” Without a second thought and forgetting the trail of melted ice he left in his wake, Dewey ran upstairs to find Webby, but Della wasn’t too far behind. She respected her kids’ choice to stay home during this adventure, and though she knew they’d return in no time, the fear of not coming back persisted.

She sprinted upstairs and lingered at their half closed door, delighting at the sound of their voices intermingled together.

“Just slip the loop in,” the loudest voice instructed, “and now go under, great. You’ve learned a double crochet, Huey.”

“Aw, Phooey! I can’t wait to get my crochet badge! Thanks!”

She chuckled, “No problem, Huey. What about you, Louie?”

“Eh, still can’t believe there’s a market for handmade crafts.”

“A lot of grandparents love when their grandkids give them something handmade, and as long as it’s cute, they’ll believe their snookums made it.”

It was impossible to convey the warmth exploding in her chest, which had become a common occurrence in her life as of late. It warmed her heart more than she understood. She wanted to bask in this warmth flowing through her veins and showering her feathers, but it didn’t do her any good to stay on the outskirts ad a silent observer.

“Hi kids,” she beamed. Before they could react, or get their replies in order, she kissed each of their foreheads and ruffled their hair, except for Phooey, who’s hair was too dense and curly to risk her fingers.

“How was the trip,” she asked, half-smiling at the wet kiss’ remains clung to her cheek. “Did Uncle Scrooge get the deal?”

“He sure did,” Della nodded, sitting on the floor in front them. Louie lied in bed scrolling down on his phone. “And we found the fabled -,”

“Money Tree!?”

Louie jolted in bed. His feathers were greasy with sweat, but that wasn't the worrisome part. Manic controlled his face as he turned his panicked expression on them.

“Yes?” Della gestured helplessly, “What's wrong, sweetie?”

At a loss of words, he stared at his phone. Disbelief was crudely drawn around his mouth and eyes; what he viewed wasn't entirely impossible. If a theoretical existed, it meant his family could achieve it, disregarding the extraordinarily low chances. He directed his phone screen to the others with a glare, and he pointed to the massively overgrown tree.

“You found a tree that grows money,” he hissed. “As in actual dollar bills and nobody thought to tell me?”

Ofelia leaned in and whistled. “Wow, I read about it in school but didn’t think it was real. Ms. Macawber is going to love this.”

“Who cares what she thinks,” he frowned. “This was a chance to get money. Raw, easy money, and I missed it!”

“Aw, sweet baby boy, we didn’t know until Uncle Scrooge told us ten five minutes before landing. I’m sorry,” but she smiled and slipped into her pocket, “but don’t worry, Momma came through for all of you.” She revealed three neatly folded dollars, “Glomgold wasn’t paying attention.”

Huey glared suspiciously, “Wasn’t paying attention?”

“Money was falling out of his pocket,” she explained, offering her children each a folded dollar, “but the point remains. Just because you couldn’t make it to this adventure doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get a souvenir.”

Louie grasped the proffered dollar without a second dollar and fell back on his pillow. “Thanks Mom,” he smiled, unfolding the bill in a hurry. “Ten bucks,” she smirked. “Not bad.”

“I’ll leave mine as is,” Huey said, bringing his to the light. “This is impeccable folding technique.”

“Ninja stars are my specialty,” Della boasted. “Your uncle hated when I made them,” she winced at the memory, “granted, one of the stars struck his eye. He fell down the stairs and was trapped in the chimney.”

“How did he get trapped in the chimney,” Ofelia asked.

“That’s a story for another day,” Della dismissed, glancing at Louie. He lied in bed, shoving his five dollar bill in his hoodie pocket. “What about you, are you on that social media thing I’ve been hearing about?”

“Waddle?”

“Yeah, that thing,” she pointed finger guns. “In my day it was just...a thing college students had. Like you needed a college email address to sign up. Donald and Donna thought they were so cool.”

The three children exchanged inquisitive stares and glanced at their mom. “Donald and Donna,” they said. “Who’s that?”

Della pulled back, beak blushing. She realized her mistake and fumbled for a cover, something quick and sharp. Webby told her about what happened when the kids met Goldie, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that sort of attention.

“Donna was a friend of Donald and I,” she explained, scratching the back of her head. “She and her sister used to visit Donald’s apartment all the time.”

“Apartment?”

“Uncle Donald had an apartment?”

“With Jose And Panchito,” Della groaned with an eye roll, “they always kept Phooey up with their songs, but that isn’t the point. At the time Waddle only approved school email addresses.”

Her stomach clenched. There it was, the hunger, but this wasn't the time. She tightened her smile and continued.

“Was she a good friend,” Huey asked quietly, afraid the question held more power to wound than comfort.

Della smiled and focused on the window rather than their sympathies. "She was one of my best friends. She was hilarious, a spit fire, and was a fantastic cook! Her sister was more of a fashionista."

“Why don’t you call her,” Huey asked. “I’m sure she misses you too.”

“Call her?” Della sputtered and sighed, breath gently brushing her bangs up. “I can’t do that,” she admitted dejectedly, “I read through all the phone books in the house, and every Donna Duck is either old or dead. It must be terrific to have a common first and last name.”

“Phone books in the mansion?” Ofelia chuckled, "Aren't they like fifty years old?”

“One did try to bite my finger off,” she rubbed her neck. “I think most of them were published during the Demogorgona colonization efforts.”

“Found her. She lives in Mouseton.”

Louie relaxed in bed where their attention swerved to. His thumb moved leisurely across the screen. He tapped several times and with that, showed them the screen. Her dreams and hopes collided with her horrors and regrets, and like the Big Bang it was in her chest, though she resisted any sign of it.

"It's a private account, can't go in," he frowned. "But her caption mentions she can't wait to get down to baking with her girls," he pointed to the icon consisting of four ducklings smushed together in a single frame.

Della leaned forward and swallowed. “She’s a mom now,” she trembled, amazed. “And married?” Her disappointment was concealed under a shaky grin, "She always knew what she wanted. Glad to know she got it."

Ofelia and Huey scooted closer, scrutinizing the small photo. “I know that duck,” she murmured. With swiftness that didn't seem possible until seen, she snapped her yellow phone out of her middle chest pocket. 

“Phooey?” Della read her face and saw only concentration as her thumbs tapped without falter, “What are you doing?”

“The girl in the corner isn’t her daughter,” she explained evenly, “that’s her niece Dottie.”

“Dottie,” Della repeated thoughtfully. “Could be her brother's kid.” She studied the girls' faces. It was a unique collection of black and white, confirming their American Pekin and Black Duck ancestry. Della glanced at her ginger feathered daughter on her right, taller than she had any right to be, and chuckled.

"Dottie's in my class. She helps her Aunt Daisy with her blog."

"Blog?" Della laughed, "Daisy's a blogger?"

"You're laughing, but her subscribe count is ridiculous," Ofelia said.

Huey nodded. "Daisy & Donna's Fashionista and Culinary Adventures is an extremely popular webseries."

"Seriously?" Della didn't know what to think. She blinked and tried to restrain her skepticism, "Daisy and Donna weren't big on adventures."

"Ten years is a long time," Huey said. "What are you doing, Ofelia," he asked.

She concentrated on her phone. "We're Waddle friends," she explained. "All I need to do is pull up her profile." She smirked, "And here she is."

This was it. Della's hunger roared having detected the appetizer her children had unwittingly presented. Swallowing, she read the recent photo of Donna Duck. She didn’t look much older; ageless Della would’ve said had she been alone. She’d grown her hair and bangs out, with two longer strands on the side. Della noticed the long, wavy ponytail tied behind her back. She swallowed thickly, wanting to cry and rage all at once, but she did none of those things.

“That’s her,” she squeaked. “That’s Donna.”

“I can DM Dottie and ask if she wants to see you."

“DM?”

“Direct Message,” Louie explained.

“Oh,” Della nodded. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Already sent.”

“Wait, what,” Della quacked. “I said don’t!”

“It’s too late,” Ofelia replied flatly, not at all apologetic. “It sent.”

“Can’t you get it back? Like hack into her inbox?”

Her mom senses knew this was the moment for her daughter to perform an eye-roll, but Ofelia exercised restraint. “That is not how hacking works,” she inhaled deeply, “and this is how old friends reconnect in the age of Social Media. Don't worry."

“Ofelia, you don’t understand,” Della tried to explain but stopped herself. Her children didn’t need to know more than they already did, “It’s complicated.”

Three sets of eyes stared curiously at her, silently asking questions she had no intention of answering. Huey sighed, shaking his head, and conceded quietly.

“Whatever your history may be,” he spoke in that infuriatingly reasonable tone she’d come to adore, “the worst thing she can say is no. After that, you won’t have to think of her again.”

Della didn’t want to believe that, the idea of never thinking of her again. Her synapses ingrained Donna Duck in permanent memory. She was a constant not to be eradicated. But her children didn't know this, and she didn't want them to know this painful truth, so she pled for her crooked smile to convince them otherwise. If they sensed anything was amiss, that an integral piece of the puzzle lied under their beaks, they chose ignorance, and for that, Della was grateful.

* * *

"Dottie doesn't always check her messages. It's possible she'll forget."

Just in case she did forget, Ofelia sent a friend request to Donna, "Who knows? You may need direct contact in the future." The matter was left inconclusive, which was more than Della could have asked for. It was best to presume the matter was settled as it was. It wasn't like Donna, now belonging to something as big as Daisy & Donna Fashion Culinary Escapades, had time to waste on an old friend.

Practical people speedily replied to messages. Dottie's forgetfulness was the most reassuring thing Della could think of. She didn't want to admit she was betting everything on a frivolous pre-teen girl, but that was how luck played out for her. And it wasn't completely on chance. She recalled her childhood forgetfulness. Sometimes she left the fridge open. Other times she forgot to lock the garage door, inadvertently releasing vengeful demons and spirts. Fortunately for everyone involved, those were rare occasions.

As the afternoon progressed into evening, Della’s concerns turned sunk wayward. By time Mrs. Beakley announced dinner her hunger was thrust underneath her stomach, cramped between her intensities and what she assumed to be her uterus. She’d come to the understanding that she could live with this hunger grumbling inside. Its presence posed no threat to the idyllic life she and her family were in the process of building.

She slid her chair close to the table. She had her boys and her girls, and she was happy. Her yearning abated, seemingly misplaced in the greater scheme of things. She inhaled Mrs. Beakley’s meal and didn’t hesitate digging in first, pleased to see the others doing the same.

Food distracting her, Della was deaf to the soft jingle at the table and unaware of Uncle Scrooge’s sharp glare that ran across it.

“Ofelia, what have we discussed,” he chided firmly, setting his fork on his plate. “No phones at the table.”

“Sorry, it was a friend request.”

“So important to disrupt family dinner,” he scowled. “You don’t see me with my phone conducting business.”

“No, Uncle Scrooge, that’s breakfast.”

The kids chuckled and Scrooge inhaled, calming his nerves. “Ofelia, please.”

“Sorry Uncle Scrooge,” she apologized, contrite as she slipped the phone into her pocket. “It was a message for Mom.”

“For Della,” he and the others faced her, unspoken questions scrawled clumsily in their stares. Della had finished her chicken leg and was drinking a glass of water when she swirled to Ofelia, also carrying an unspoken question in her gaze.

“For me,” water bubbled.

“Yeah,” she replied. “Donna said she’d like to see you this weekend. Saturday at Papa Swann’s?”

“And you told her -,”

“Mom is excited to see you, let’s make it twelve?”

Her reaction was almost instantaneous. There it began in a single pause where her neurons clicked and connected, flashing red as comprehension dawned. Her true reaction followed in quick succession with dilated pupils and hyperventilation. She felt small and tiny and completely helpless. Her stomach, which was now full of food and water, clenched painfully, and her throat excreted thick mucus as water rushed down.

It came back up. Her direction spun in the opposite direction, towards Scrooge, and no one said anything when her backwash struck him directly in the face.

Their silence continued as she exited the table, running upstairs with panicked eyes. The door slammed shut, and the kids, who were both confused and more than a little concerned, exchanged worried glances. But as Scrooge wiped his face with a napkin and the others debated what action to take next, Huey accurately assessed the situation.

“Looks like it’s a date.”

**Author's Note:**

> Della is going to go on that date whether she wants to or not, but don't worry, she really wants to.


End file.
